He wept bitterly a long time.
Then, suddenly bursting into rage again, he cried vehemently “The Church! for whose sake I was driven from her; my malison be on the Church! and the hypocrites that name it to my broken heart. Accursed be the world! Ghysbrecht lives; Margaret dies. Thieves, murderers, harlots, live for ever. Only angels die. Curse life! curse death! and whosoever made them what they are!”
The friar did not hear these mad and wicked words; but only the yell of rage with which they were flung after him.
It was as well. For, if he had heard them, he would have had his late shipmate burned in the forum with as little hesitation as he would have roasted a kid.
His old landlady who had accompanied Fra Colonna down the stair, heard the raised voice, and returned in some anxiety.
She found Gerard putting on his clothes, and crying.
She remonstrated.
“What avails my lying here?” said he gloomily. “Can I find here that which I seek?”
“Saints preserve us! Is he distraught again? What seek ye?”
“Oblivion.”